scale armor and fur cloak of a Vanir warrior—a race he neither resembled nor loved. Henna gave his black mane an auburn tint, while a silken mask covered his upper features. The disguise was Sandokazi’s idea, as was the heavy war axe he carried—a two-handed weapon with broad blade and hammer head. Conan approved of this last; weapons, other than a gentleman’s rapier and dagger, were suspect at the king’s revel, but this axe was only part of his costume.
“Who would expect a real barbarian to masquerade as a barbarian?” Sandokazi had argued, displaying a Zingaran’s tendency to lump all the dissimilar northern barbarians into one catchall. Conan spoke Zamoran well enough to pose as a visiting official from that distant realm—thus excusing his accent to the snobbish and parochial Zingaran gentry, most of whom would be hardpressed to distinguish a Pict from a Kushite, a Stygian from a Turanian, should so slight a matter have cause to impinge upon their attention.
Sandokazi herself wore a falcon’s mask, full-face, and an enveloping cape of feathers that swirled about her bare limbs as she walked. She wore nothing beneath the feathered cloak.
Santiddio, who led her about upon a silver chain affixed to her neck, wore a falconer’s garb and a domino mask. As Sandokazi had predicted, none of the guests paid him a second glance.
Strangest of all, Mordermi capered about in an idealized guise of King Rimanendo himself—in ermine robes, gilt mail, tinsel crown, powdered hair, sufficient belly padding to alter his own physique without blaspheming that of Zingara’s monarch. Again, Sandokazi’s idea; “Will they look askant upon the image of our king?”
She was, to Conan’s mind, exceedingly clever, and he was just as relieved that there had been no further nocturnal visits during the month he had remained with Mordermi.
The weeks had passed quickly and not unprofitably for Conan. The pickings were rich for Mordermi and his band, and Mordermi was a generous leader. Conan himself was no slouch when it came to the unlawful acquisition of property, and the Cimmerian gave away nothing in daring or ability to the more experienced Zingaran rogue. Admiration grew into a firm friendship between the two, tempered with an undercurrent of rivalry which, in their youth, neither man yet recognized as a threat.
It was a friendship that included Santiddio and Sandokazi, although there was never the kinship of spirit that made a bond between Conan and Mordermi. Mordermi was a barbarian of the urban slums in effect, forged in a wilderness as savage and pitiless in its way as the cold mountains of Cimmeria. With Santiddio and Sandokazi there was always that aloof barrier engendered by higher breeding. For all his talk of the brotherhood of all mankind, Santiddio’s intellectuality effectively divorced him from the realities of his dreams, while there was to Sandokazi the sense of an amused participant in a game that seems somehow too childish for one of her accomplishments.
Conan sensed that he himself was as much of an enigma to the others, and that perhaps their friendship was nourished by the fact that they were all of them misfits: Mordermi whose ambitions were far more subtle than merely to reign as prince of thieves. Sandokazi, whose amusement was to pull down the social order that was her birthright. Santiddio, whose dream was to create a new order based upon reason, not power. And finally Conan, a barbarian adventurer who had left Cimmeria to see the civilized kingdoms of mankind, and had found little to vindicate his wanderlust.
He had sought adventure, and in that Conan had never been disappointed.
There were several hundred guests here to celebrate King Rimanendo’s birthday masque. Fantastically costumed figures promenaded about the garden and grounds, while within the pavilion courtly gentlemen and their gorgeously gowned ladies swirled in dance upon the black marble floor. Scantily clad serving girls darted
“Who would expect a real barbarian to masquerade as a barbarian?” Sandokazi had argued, displaying a Zingaran’s tendency to lump all the dissimilar northern barbarians into one catchall. Conan spoke Zamoran well enough to pose as a visiting official from that distant realm—thus excusing his accent to the snobbish and parochial Zingaran gentry, most of whom would be hardpressed to distinguish a Pict from a Kushite, a Stygian from a Turanian, should so slight a matter have cause to impinge upon their attention.
Sandokazi herself wore a falcon’s mask, full-face, and an enveloping cape of feathers that swirled about her bare limbs as she walked. She wore nothing beneath the feathered cloak.
Santiddio, who led her about upon a silver chain affixed to her neck, wore a falconer’s garb and a domino mask. As Sandokazi had predicted, none of the guests paid him a second glance.
Strangest of all, Mordermi capered about in an idealized guise of King Rimanendo himself—in ermine robes, gilt mail, tinsel crown, powdered hair, sufficient belly padding to alter his own physique without blaspheming that of Zingara’s monarch. Again, Sandokazi’s idea; “Will they look askant upon the image of our king?”
She was, to Conan’s mind, exceedingly clever, and he was just as relieved that there had been no further nocturnal visits during the month he had remained with Mordermi.
The weeks had passed quickly and not unprofitably for Conan. The pickings were rich for Mordermi and his band, and Mordermi was a generous leader. Conan himself was no slouch when it came to the unlawful acquisition of property, and the Cimmerian gave away nothing in daring or ability to the more experienced Zingaran rogue. Admiration grew into a firm friendship between the two, tempered with an undercurrent of rivalry which, in their youth, neither man yet recognized as a threat.
It was a friendship that included Santiddio and Sandokazi, although there was never the kinship of spirit that made a bond between Conan and Mordermi. Mordermi was a barbarian of the urban slums in effect, forged in a wilderness as savage and pitiless in its way as the cold mountains of Cimmeria. With Santiddio and Sandokazi there was always that aloof barrier engendered by higher breeding. For all his talk of the brotherhood of all mankind, Santiddio’s intellectuality effectively divorced him from the realities of his dreams, while there was to Sandokazi the sense of an amused participant in a game that seems somehow too childish for one of her accomplishments.
Conan sensed that he himself was as much of an enigma to the others, and that perhaps their friendship was nourished by the fact that they were all of them misfits: Mordermi whose ambitions were far more subtle than merely to reign as prince of thieves. Sandokazi, whose amusement was to pull down the social order that was her birthright. Santiddio, whose dream was to create a new order based upon reason, not power. And finally Conan, a barbarian adventurer who had left Cimmeria to see the civilized kingdoms of mankind, and had found little to vindicate his wanderlust.
He had sought adventure, and in that Conan had never been disappointed.
There were several hundred guests here to celebrate King Rimanendo’s birthday masque. Fantastically costumed figures promenaded about the garden and grounds, while within the pavilion courtly gentlemen and their gorgeously gowned ladies swirled in dance upon the black marble floor. Scantily clad serving girls darted
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